In My Veins
by DopplerGirl
Summary: "His last thought is of emeralds". One-shot. Death fic. Abby/Townshend.


_My dear, _  
_Find what you love and let it kill you._

_-Charles Bukowski_

* * *

Spying had very few positive attributes. It payed well, for one thing. It was easy to stay in good shape for another. And for some unfathomable reason, being a spy made a person look completely desirable, even to people who were completely oblivious to what you did for a living. It was all part of the job description.

But for the first time, he thinks its not enough. Especially since he's so cold, and his chest hurts and he just wants to go home.

_Where is home?_

He thinks long and hard. For like, ten whole seconds. But he couldn't remember ever being at home.

He remembers his dad, the cruelest bastard there ever was. He remembers being dragged around the world, forced into cheap hotels and constantly moving around, following targets left and right. He wasn't stupid: he'd seen the bodies and known what his father wasn't strictly one of the good guys. Hell, even Edward didn't like his own Papa Dearest.

So when his body showed up at Edward's doorstep the day he turned 18, it wasn't much of surprise to anyone. At the funeral, a man dressed in a black suit with blood on his otherwise shiny black shoes and a gun at his hip offered Edward a job with MI6, and that was that.

Agent Townshend was dead. Agent Townshend took his place.

Edward knew the risks. He knew, from the day he took that job, that he was going to be walking a thin line between darkness and light for the rest of his life. That he would spend the remainder of his days in the shadows, saving tens of hundreds of thousands of lives and never hearing a single thank you. That he'd condemned himself to be alone, because love had no place in this business.

And he was perfectly okay with it. It just got a little lonely sometimes.

(Only one person called him Edward after that, and it was the woman with night for hair and emeralds for eyes, the angel crying above him. And that was usually when they were in some seedy motel, under the protection of the sheets, with his head between her legs and her fingers clawing at the pillows and her mouth making the most amazingly satisfying noise while his tongue danced around her core and she would beg and plead and _scream _his name, and he would feel whole for the first time in months.)

Tears land on his cheek, and someone, somewhere is cradling his head in their soft hands, but his eyes are locked on the sea of green in front of him. His Angel is crying, her face marred with tears and pain and grief and anger, and something that looked a little like love.

_Don't cry, Angel._

He tries to reach up and touch her face. But his arms are to heavy and his chest hurts so much and the world is just do damn cold and he figures just looking at her is enough.

Her mouth move. They open wide and close, and her face is all scrunched up and it occurs to Edward that she's yelling at him. He doesn't like that. Not one bit.

(He likes her lips better when she laughs so hard no sound comes out or when she's complaining about how _British _he is or making some witty remark. He likes it when her lips are pressed against his own, and the electricity crackling around them is enough to light up New York City for several days. He likes her lips when they peck butterfly kisses up and down his torso, before stopping and wrapping around his-)

_DON'T YOU DARE DIE ON ME EDWARD._

The words were garbled and muted, as though someone was speaking through water, but Edward could still marvel over the sound of the most beautiful voice in the world screeching his name as though the volume alone could tether him to her forever. He hoped it could.

Dying? Was he dying?

It _sounded _right. And it would explain why his chest hurt so much. Briefly, he has an image of a woman as red as the devil throwing flames at a girl whose hazel eyes held the secret to everything he believed in, and a boy shrouded in darkness stepping in front of her. A quick memory of himself stepping in front of both of them and pain lancing through his heart.

Goddammit, he was dying.

He remembers the last time those words were spoken to him. The last time his Angel, his Abby, used her sheer will and unbelievable stubbornness to keep him from an early grave. When those soft red lips pulled close to his ear and whispered d_on't you dare die on me, Edward, _the first time anyone used his first name in years. But Buenos Aries had been a long time ago, and he didn't think that the results would have the same positive effect this time.

The Argentinian mob leader had shot him with some stupid drug that made half his body functions stop working. Edward had drool running down his chin, his trousers soaked were with piss his body released without permission, and he couldn't feel the entirety of his left side. And when she burst through his cell door looking like hell, with sweat soaking through her blue janitors jumpsuit and hair tousled beyond belief and he had never seen anything so beautiful.

It was so warm that day in Buenos Ares, he knew that, but Edward couldn't remember a time when the cold radiating though his chest wasn't there. Pain shot through him again and he shivered as his Angel held his hand so tight.

Tears drop onto his cheeks from whoever is holding his head. He pries his gaze away from Abby long enough to see hazel eyes staring back into his, heartbroken. A name pulled through his haze.

_Cammie._

Good. She was safe. That was very good.

His eyelids flutter close, wanting a rest.

A sharp sting sparks his right cheek. His eyes fly open.

She's let go of his hand, only to slap his face. That's funny. She usually tells him about how she likes him best unconscious. Liar. His Angel Liar.

_I wonder why I've never called her Angel before, _he thinks. _I should. _

He opens his mouth to tell her, but no sound comes out. Something warm and wet, something that tastes like iron, is blocking his throat. He can't speak. He can't breath.

His Angel sees this. In a flash, her palms are on his chest, instantly covered in red. She presses on his chest. It hurts. She does it again. He wants to tell her to stop but he can't breath.

He knows this is karma. For not saying what he should have said before. For not telling her how he thinks about her all the time, and how she's his first thought all the time. For not protecting her better. For not giving her an answer that day in Italy, before another man 6 feet under broke her heart, when she was shrieking and crying and begging him to _just say you care. _He knows this is the Universe's sick way of telling him he should've manned up before._  
_

He tries to focus on his surroundings to distract himself from the elephants dancing on his chest. He's a spy goddammit and he can't even remember how the got here.

To his left a pair of converses are pacing back and forth and you can hear a(n almost)man's voice yelling for backup. To his right, two pairs of feet are locked in what was either a poorly choreographed dance or intense fight. Somewhere a millions miles above, a bullet shatters a window, and a chameleon protects him from the falling glass.

But all that doesn't matter at the moment, because his world is leaning over and pressing her lips to his. Her warm, red lips. But its not like usual. Because she's blowing into his mouth hard, and it feels weird, and for some reason her lips come away from his mouth even redder than before. He's not wearing lipstick is he?

Oh, blood. It's blood.

He doesn't like the taste of blood. The first time he killed a man, it didn't occur to him that shooting at a close range would cause blood to fly everywhere. He should have closed his mouth.

There is nothing that will make you feel like more of a monster than having someone else's blood in your mouth.

But apparently, Abby doesn't mind, because her lips are pressed against his again, blowing that strange air into his mouth. But it's not working, he knows it's not working and his vision is going dark.

She knows too. Her lips stop blowing and she doesn't begin pounding his chest again. Instead, she leans in real close to his ear, and shouts, making sure he doesn't miss a word through the haze.

_If you have ever cared about me. If you ever loved me, you'll fight this. You hear me, you stupid, British, jackass? Don't you dare die on me, Edward. You're gonna stay right here with me._

He wants to. He wants to live forever, and make sure she knew how much he loved her for every day of it. He wants to wake up every morning to kiss the roses off her mouth just because he can. More than anything, he wants to stay with her.

But he can't. He can feel himself slipping, can barely feel the hands cradling his head, can barely see anything more than a foot away. He knows he's going to die, and for the first time in his life, Edward Townshend is absolutely terrified.

Nobody would remember him. Nobody would remember him putting his life in danger to save others. Nobody would remember the sordid late night hookups at seedy, off-road motels, followed by unsaid words in the morning. Nobody would be left to remember Edward. Or how he died.

Nobody's pressing her forehead to his, the chameleon having disappeared, giving them this one last moment. He can't see anything but green anymore, warm tears splashing on his cheeks.

He finds the strength to lift his arm enough to trace a heart on her thigh. The fresh wave of tears tells him she got the message.

She begins to say something, but the world turns dark first. His last thought is of emeralds.

* * *

**I know this makes no sense. Its five in the morning and I haven't slept yet, okay. But I've had more free time on my hands this past week (meaning I gave myself a a severe concussion on a soccer post like a genius, and I've been bedridden). So I started this like a million years ago, and I decided to finish it after reading Abby/Townshend three shot with French proverbs that was totally awesome and realizing I really wanted to do Abby/Townshend. But this didn't turn out so good as I hoped. It's supposed to be like his life flashing before his eyes, but not really, and of course you're not supposed to be coherent when you're dying, and I'm not coherent ever, so I kind of went batshit with this, and if you don't understand, sorry. Also, I don't know if those small bits of sexytime count as smut, but I'm putting this as M anyway. Game of Thrones has kind of rubbed off on me a bit _too_ much.**

**-Sarah**


End file.
